


unravel my latest mistake

by bemusedlybespectacled (ardentintoxication)



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo [2013] [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bunker Fic, Community: hc_bingo, Fallen Angels, Fallen Castiel, Fever, First Kiss, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Jossed, M/M, Men of Letters Headquarters, Pneumonia, Post-Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Season 09 Speculation, Season/Series 08 Spoilers, enough sap to boil into syrup and put on pancakes, it's so fluffy I'm gonna die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 03:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardentintoxication/pseuds/bemusedlybespectacled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take one former angel with pneumonia, two hunters, and six fallen angels. Stir.<br/>Separately, mix a (possibly) reformed King of Hell and a prophet who wants to kill him: set aside.<br/>Add a pinch of romance, several cups of guilt, lots of cuddling, and salt to taste.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unravel my latest mistake

**Author's Note:**

> This took forever to write, but I got it out on time, luckily. Watch it get Jossed all to Hell.

They find Cas three days after the angels fall. Sam is sleeping in the back of the Impala - he’s not fully recovered from his attempted suicide-by-world-saving, but he’s getting better - and so Dean is the one who finds Cas huddled inside a phone booth in the middle of nowhere, his clothes completely soaked through, his shoes and the bottoms of his pants caked with mud, his face streaked with dirt and scratches that are probably from tree branches. Before the phone ran out on him, Cas had said that he’d walked a day and a half to get there, and it’s been raining for two days straight now.

Dean’s not entirely sure that he’s actually alive until he starts coughing.

“Cas?”

Cas blinks wearily, like it’s a struggle to keep his eyes open. “Dean,” he rasps. “You came.”

“You _did_ call me,” says Dean, trying to lighten the mood, but any laughter that Cas could have produced is swallowed by another coughing fit. “That doesn’t sound good, man. Have you eaten anything in the past couple of days? Drunk anything?”

Cas shakes his head. “I don’t remember...”

He tries to stand up, but wobbles, and Dean is there with one arm threaded under both of his and the other under his knees. “Shit. Shitshitshit. Let’s get you to the car.”

Carrying Cas feels like an apology.

Sam’s awake by the time Dean gets back to the car, already out with the door open for him. “We got him.”

“Yeah, Sammy, we did,” says Dean, putting Cas in the back seat as gently as he can. “Get some water, he hasn’t drunk anything-”

Sam pulls a water bottle out of the trunk and passes it to Dean, who holds it to Cas’s lips. “Go slow, okay, Cas? Last thing we need is for you to throw up in my baby.”

Cas obeys Dean without hesitation, drinking in careful, measured sips even though it’s clearly killing him not to gulp the whole thing down in one go, and fuck, that hurts worse than anything.

“We’ll get you some Gatorade on the way,” says Sam, after the water’s gone.

“Of course,” says Cas. He still sounds weak, but not quite so dry. He coughs again.

“Something for that cough, too,” says Dean, more to Sam than to Cas. “And clothes that aren’t covered in crap.”

“We passed a Walmart on the way up,” says Sam.

“Okay,” says Dean. “We stop there first, then we turn around and head straight for the batcave.”

Sam nods and grabs the shotgun seat. They switch places after the Walmart - barring a couple of hours of sleep, Dean has driven everywhere in the past couple of days and is close to breaking point.

Dean sleeps and Sam drives and Cas sips Gatorade like it’s the Blood of Christ.

* * *

The bunker is a bit more crowded when they get there that evening - besides Kevin, there’s a  mostly-cured demon in the dungeon, and half a dozen former angels holed up in the various guest bedrooms. They pulled Barty ( _Bartholomew_ , he keeps saying, like he’s holding on to something) out of the lake in front of the church. They found Adah and Mara on the side of the road while they were driving Barty to the bunker. Kezia, Hephzibah, and Zebadiah found the bunker on their own, not knowing what it was, and who knows what would have happened if they hadn’t landed so near. Kevin left Garth a message, telling him to get the word out about a bunch of people about to turn up with no ID and no past, but they haven’t heard back.

All six of them are in the kitchen, and all six turn to look at Cas when he comes in, held up almost entirely by the strength of Dean’s arm around his waist.

“Is that him?” asks Adah. “Is that Castiel?”

“Yes,” says Hephzibah. She doesn’t need to say anything else to make her contempt clear.

“I had not thought...” says Adah, but she doesn’t finish her sentence. She looks almost disappointed.

Zebadiah gets to his feet. He’s not as tall as Sam, but it’s still intimidating. “What is he doing here?”

“Zebadiah-” says Kezia, putting a slim brown hand on his arm. He shrugs it off.

“He was the one who brought chaos to Heaven. How many of us has he killed?” He gestures around the table. “Is he here to kill us, too? Did he cause us to Fall?”

“ _Zebadiah_ ,” Kezia says again. Her eyes are so dark brown they’re almost black, and she pits the full force of her gaze against his wrath. “Look at him. He is ill. We do not know the truth.”

“We know enough,” says Hephzibah. “He should answer for his-”

“No,” says Mara. “We do _not_ know. And we should-”

“It...” Cas chokes on the word. Dean doesn’t know if it’s from shame or from sheer weariness. “It was my fault. I trusted,” he stops to cough again, “Metatron-”

“Metatron?” says Hephzibah incredulously. “You expect us to believe that _Metatron_ is involved in this?”

“Do you hear how he shifts the blame?” says Zebadiah. “Can we expect the truth from his lips?”

“I hate to break up this meeting of the drama club,” says Dean, “but until Cas is up to talking without coughing, you all are going to _sit your feathery asses down_ ,” this in particular is directed at Zebadiah, “and shut up.” He looks at each angel, making his point clear. “Our house, our rules.”

“That is acceptable,” says Mara. “We would not think of being… _rude_ to our hosts.”

He doesn’t even bother to acknowledge her support. Cas is starting to go limp in his arms and his breathing is harsh and heavy, like even that half a sentence was too much for him, and Dean is pretty damn tired of dealing with angels and their political crap right now.

He takes Cas to his room. He tells himself it’s closest, but there’s a nagging feeling that he needs to keep an eye on Cas. Keep him safe.

Dean puts him on the bed, helps him take off his shoes. His clothes are soaked through, and his hair probably has leaves or whatever in it. He’s shivering.

“Do you think you can handle a shower?” Dean asks.

Cas nods a bit blearily. “If it would make me warmer. I’m… it’s cold.”

“Well, yeah,” says Dean, “your clothes are wet. Take ‘em off, we’ll get you some fresh ones and some towels.” Cas doesn’t move. “You need help?”

“I don’t…” He’s shivering so hard his teeth are chattering. On a hunch, Dean puts the back of a hand to his forehead. He’s burning up. Shit. He should have caught that sooner, he’d just been distracted-

“Sam?” says Dean, poking his head out of the door.

“What?”

“Cas’s got a fever.”

Sam is in the room in an instant, putting the Walmart bags full of clothes and cough syrup on Dean’s bed next to Cas. “Let me get my laptop.”

He plugs Cas’s symptoms - fever, cough, chest pain, fatigue - into Google. “Whatever it is, it’s in his lungs,” he says, “but we’d need a doctor to know for sure.”

“And to get the right meds,” says Dean. “That’s hospital territory.”

“We don’t have any IDs for him at all.”

“We’ll make it work. Puppy eyes, anything.”

Sam nods. “I’ll grab our IDs, at least. We’ll take him in the morning. Neither of us have slept and we’re not going to crash on the way to the hospital.”

“At least that would guarantee we’d get there,” says Dean, and Sam laughs, and isn’t that a change?

Dean gets some towels from the linen closet and gives Cas directions to the shower room. “And don’t drown in there, you hear me?”

He comes out an hour later wearing some sweatpants and a clean T-shirt that they bought at the Walmart, his hair sticking up at all angles, his breathing a bit easier from the steam in the shower. Dean’s already in bed.

“I suppose I should...” he makes a gesture towards the hallway, indicating the spare rooms they have there.

“You’re staying here,” says Dean. “Some of those angels have it out for you, and you’re not exactly asskicking material right now.” He lifts up a corner of the blanket, and Cas, very carefully, lies down next to him. “Just don’t get me sick.”

* * *

The next morning they head out again. Cas woke up several times in the night coughing, and his fever didn’t go down much at all. In the ER, he’s listed as Cass Collins, brought in by friends Steve Hackett and Anthony Phillips, no insurance, billing address somewhere in South Dakota (thank you, Bobby, for having multiple throw-away mailboxes for this exact reason).

The doctor on call introduces herself as Dr. Kaur. She diagnoses Cas with pneumonia after a round of bloodwork and a chest x-ray, and puts him on antibiotics.

“You’re lucky your friends brought you here when they did,” she says, writing the prescription. “Besides this,” she says, tapping her pen to the pad, “you’re on bed rest and plenty of fluids. Take some Tylenol or Motrin for that fever, and cough syrup at night so you can sleep. And don’t stop taking your medication just because you feel better - take every one, or it could come back stronger.”

Cas nods. It’s clearly a struggle for even that movement - he tried to sleep on Dean’s shoulder while they waited, but his constant coughing kept waking him up just as he was starting to doze off. “I understand. Thank you.”

“It’s my job,” she says, raising her eyebrows, “but you’re welcome.”

They pick up Cas’s meds on the way home. He swallows them dry, like the taste is some sort of penance.

* * *

After spending all day in the ER, Cas heads straight for Dean’s room and falls asleep on his bed without even taking his shoes off or getting under the covers. Dean’s easing the dress shoes off his feet - they’ll have to get him new ones, these are ruined - when there’s kicking sound at the door.

Dean turns warily. “Come in.”

It’s Adah. Her almond-shaped eyes scan the room. They take in Cas’s sleeping form, Dean kneeling at the foot of the bed, the medications on the dressing table, and something flickers across her face. “I brought tea,” she says, holding up two steaming mugs. “There was some in the kitchen. My vessel likes-” she stops herself. “She liked peppermint tea when she was sick. I thought Castiel might want it.”

Dean stands up. He takes one mug and puts it next to Cas by the bed. “That’s thoughtful of you.” He gestures at her body. “Liked, past tense?”

“I am not aware of her anymore. I do not know if this is her body, and she is dead, or if this is a copy of it and she has been returned to her own body.” She shrugs. “Either way, this is my body now.”

 _So we still don’t know if Jimmy is alive or not._ Dean shrugs it off - too much shit to think about right now. Instead, he says, “Why do you look like your vessel? Why not have your own body?”

“I do not know. I believe that it is because it is familiar to me.” She frowns. “I do not believe that Mara or Zebadiah ever took a vessel, so I do not know if their bodies are a manifestation of what they would look like or simply picked at random. I am used to them being much more…” she searches for the word, “... _abstract_ than they are now.”

“Celestial wavelengths, right.”

She nods. “But I would know them in any form. They are not so different, really.” She looks at Castiel again. “I never met him, before I Fell,” she says. “We heard things, of course, but we were largely removed from the fighting. I…” She’s again looking for the right word. “I do not know what I expected. Not this.”

“Wait until he isn’t coughing up a lung anymore,” says Dean. “He’s not exactly at full mojo right now.”

Adah looks horrified. “Is that what this disease is? Is it truly that horrible?”

“No, it’s- it’s an exaggeration, okay?”

She nods, but still looks worried. “Okay.” She backs away from the door. “I will leave him to your ministry.”

Dean has a feeling that if she had her wings, she would have taken the opportunity to vanish.

* * *

The next day, Dean goes to visit Crowley. They’ve stashed him in the dungeon mostly on principle, but partially because they have no idea what Sam’s blood did to him. Sam had said that near the end Crowley was crying, that he’d willingly held out his neck for the syringe, but Dean had pointed out that they hadn’t actually cured the bastard, and he trusted him about as far he could spit. This has proved to be a good decision, since whatever was in the bastard’s system dried up and expired after a couple of hours, leaving him the same old Crowley as before.

So Dean takes his meals down to the dungeon, and tries not to punch him.

“Ahh,” says Crowley, raising one eyebrow when he sees him. Even with the blood crusted on his face, the track marks on his neck, the shackles on his neck and wrists, he still manages to look like he has a right to be there. “My jailor arrives.”

Dean slides the plate - sandwich and some fries - within Crowley’s reach. “There’s a kid up there whose mom you killed,” he reminds him. “Think of it as protective custody.”

Crowley smiles. “Oh, and I’m _eternally_ grateful. I shudder to think of what danger I’m in, what with the _baby prophet_ after me.” He picks up the sandwich and chews it thoughtfully. “So how’s Feathers?” He smirks. “Took you lot a while to find him.”

Dean gets up and heads for the door.

“Oh, I think I hit a sore spot,” says Crowley. “Does it bother you, that he’s sick because you waited so long after he Fell?” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Did part of you want to make him suffer, because he didn’t come when you called?”

“I’m not gonna listen to this shit right now,” says Dean.

Crowley’s laughter follows him out the door.

* * *

Cas wakes up twice that night.

The first time, it’s the coughing that wakes Dean up, the hacking, wet, choking sound that is a few heaves short of throwing up. Dean gives him a swallow of cough syrup from the bedside table and goes back to sleep.

Dean wakes up a second time to Cas twisting in the sheets, mumbling nonsensical syllables. “Cas,” says Dean, shaking his shoulder. “Cas, wake up, man. It’s not real, dude, come on-”

Cas inhales deeply, which starts another coughing fit, forcing him to sit up. Dean pounds his back through it, not knowing what else to do.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dean asks after a long pause.

Cas is very still in the darkness. “He took my grace.” When Dean doesn’t say anything, he keeps talking. “Not during the Fall. It wasn’t a trial, they weren’t trials, they were parts of a spell.” Cas is speaking almost robotically, like he can get the words out only if he doesn’t allow any emotion in them.

“He tied me to the chair - Naomi’s chair. She was dead. He’d stabbed her with her own instruments, and I thought she’d attacked him, that he’d overpowered her, until-” Dean hasn’t moved his hand from Cas’s back. He realizes this, but doesn’t take it away. “He cut me open.” Cas makes a low wheezing sound. “He held my head back and he cut me open and he took my grace and he made me _watch_ -” He’s shaking now, his breath coming in short gasps, and Dean shifts to his knees and turns Cas to face him, pulls him to his chest and holds him tight.

“I’m gonna gank that son of a bitch,” says Dean. He can feel Cas’s fever through his T-shirt. “I’m gonna walk straight to the Pearly Gates and stick an angel blade _so far_ up his ass it comes out the top of his head.”

“I think that’s what you would call a ‘tall order’,” Cas says into Dean’s chest. He’s still shuddering.

“When has that stopped me before?”

Cas laughs weakly - or sobs, one of the two - into Dean’s shirt. And then he’s moving, very slowly, in the dark, and Dean has one or two second’s worth of panic ( _oh God he’s gonna kiss me_ ) before their lips are touching, gently, chastely.

“Cas,” Dean says, pulling away, “you’re sick, you shouldn’t- you can’t-”

“I’m fine,” says Cas. “I’m well aware of my illness, and it has no effect on my ability to consent. I assure you: this is what I want.”

“Uh,” says Dean. It occurs to him that he should be freaking out or something, but he decides to worry about that later.

They kiss again, and something about it feels unutterably right, like Dean had been forgetting something and only just now remembered what it was. The kisses are soft and quiet, and their hands never stray from each other’s shoulders, but it’s enough. It’s enough for now.

Dean breaks the kiss again, just to press his forehead to Cas’s, letting the other man lean on him.

They stay like that until Cas’s breathing eases into something that sounds like sleep.

* * *

When Dean wakes up next, Cas’s pajamas are soaked in sweat, and his forehead is cool to the touch.

* * *

Dean makes breakfast, Bartholomew sips coffee like he’s in a 1950s Folger ad, Sam emails Garth (again), and Mara attempts to braid her hair over and over.

“I do not understand,” she says, holding fistfuls of long, thick hair like she’s trying to will them into submission. “Kezia showed me how to do it last night. I got it right then.”

Dean, who has absolutely no idea how hair works (honestly, he doesn’t know how _Sam’s_ works, and Sam’s hair is less than a third that long), wisely says nothing.

“There are video tutorials on Youtube,” says Sam.

Mara frowns at him. “I have no idea what that means.”

“I’ll explain later.”

Dean takes the serving plate, loaded high with pancakes, and moves it to the table. “Where’re the others?” he asks. “You know, Blondie and the other guy.”

“I do not know where Zebadiah is,” says Mara. “Hephzibah is likely in her room, weeping.”

At Dean’s questioning look, she clarifies. “Humans admire ants, yes? You praise them for their strength and their industry, their loyalty. But you wouldn’t want to be an ant.” She finger combs her botched braid out and starts again. “Hephzibah never really liked taking a vessel. She said she found it constricting. Now she is trapped in one, without any powers that might make it easier for her. Do you understand?”

Dean nods.

She finishes the braid and puts a pancake on her plate with two fingers, very carefully. She looks at the syrup and the silverware. “Now… how do I use these utensils?”

Sam is explaining how forks work when Kevin comes in. He’s clutching the demon tablet, and he’s got the same manic look he had while he was on the boat.

“I want to do it,” he says.

“Do what?” asks Sam.

“Crowley. I want to-”

“Kevin,” says Dean, “I know you want to kill him, but that’s too big of a job, even for you-”

“No,” says Kevin. “That’s not what I want. I mean, yeah, I want to kill him, but… I want to cure Crowley.” He swallows. “Myself.”

* * *

Kevin passes out abruptly afterward, because after everything the kid’s been through, a demonic Red Cross donation is apparently the tipping point. Crowley catches him before he hits the floor.

And then he immediately hands him off to Sam, because he still has some pride, damnit.

* * *

Cas is laid up in Dean’s room for a few more days, and his cough doesn’t subside for a while after that, but Zebadiah and Hephzibah (and Mara, though she’s much more quiet about it than they are) call for an explanation as soon as Cas stops showing as many symptoms.

“No, Dean,” says Cas when Dean objects. “They deserve to know.”

“You’re still sick-”

“I’m fine-”

“Like hell you are. What are they planning to do, anyway?”

Cas sighs. “I don’t know, Dean. Certainly, some of them want to kill me, or at least judge me for my crimes. But they all need the truth.”

Dean relents, with some ground rules. Cas only has to tell it once, to all of them. He and Sammy have to be there the whole time to play referee. And anyone who so much as breathes funny in Cas’s direction gets taken down, and none too gently.

Barty keeps gasping faintly when Cas describes some of the shit Naomi put him through. Hephzibah’s face switches between complete disbelief and horror in turns, Mara twists her fingers in her lap, and Adah sits through it quietly, keeping Cas in her strong, steady gaze. When Cas describes Naomi’s death and Metatron’s last request, Zebadiah storms out of the room, and Kezia follows him out. Her soft pleading is barely audible through the door.

“Zebadiah takes betrayal very seriously,” Adah explains.

“Yeah,” says Dean. “I got that when he started jumping on Cas.”

“Kezia knows how to talk to people,” says Hephzibah. “He’ll come back.”

Dean doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Zebadiah returns five minutes later, looking sullen. Kezia pats him on the hand and doesn’t say anything.

* * *

 When he’s done talking, when they’ve asked him everything they can about the spell and Metatron’s powers, Naomi’s faction and the war in Heaven, Cas gets up from the kitchen chair he’s sitting on. “That’s all I know,” he says. “I’ll leave you to talk about it amongst yourselves. Whatever you decide to do,” he directs this at Hephzibah especially, “I’ll respect that decision.”

“Unless it’s something that involves killin’ people,” says Dean. “Gonna have a problem with that.”

“Of course,” says Bartholomew. He and the other angels leave en mass towards the library. Dean makes a mental note to tell Kevin not to go in there for a while.

When they’ve gone, Dean puts a hand on Cas’s shoulder. “Dude, you okay?” The shoulder he’s touching is shaking slightly.

“I’m fine, Dean,” says Cas. “I just do not particularly enjoy reliving these events.”

Dean attempts to pull him into a one-armed hug, which morphs into a full-on hug-and-hair-petting thing, and Cas sinks into it gratefully, pressing himself into Dean until his tremors wear themselves out.

* * *

The angels - former angels, anyway - are all over the place, ideas-wise. Hephzibah and Zebadiah want to get out of the bunker as soon as possible and hit the road looking for other angels. Kezia wants to go with them to keep Zebadiah from, as she puts it, “Being overtly negatively emotional.” Adah and Mara want to stay - “you have yet to show me _Youtube_ ,” Mara tells Sam -  and Barty doesn’t know what he wants, but he wants to be with familiar people.

“You know,” Sam says, repeating what he and Dean talked about last night, “you’re gonna need IDs and stuff, not to mention some kind of transportation that’s not walking, and that’s not gonna happen until Garth gets back online. You might as well stay until we can reach him.” He gestures to himself and Dean. “We’re hunters. We can find angels with you. There’s probably one in every town by now.”

“There’s all sorts of shit out there,” Dean points out. “And how many of you know how to use a gun?” No one responds. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“So what we were thinking,” says Sam, “is that we add angel-finding to our hunts. And if we find some, we bring them back here. Teach them the same stuff. And then they can go out on hunts and find more and do the same thing, you see?”

Cas doesn’t say anything, well aware of how his opinion could color that of the angels’.

Kezia speaks up first. “Our original plan might have been a bit rash.”

“It was a good plan,” says Adah, “just not immediately feasible.”

“I do not mind staying a little longer,” says Hephzibah.

“Great,” Sam says, leading them out. “So, let’s actually get you all permanently settled and buy clothes and things, and then we can start with some basic lore…”

Cas waits until they’ve left him and Dean alone before he turns to Dean. “More hunters,” he says. “To replace the ones who were lost.”

“Easier than closing the gates,” says Dean.

“Yes,” says Cas, and then he kisses him. This kiss is harsher, though softened by unchapped lips and cool brows. It’s the kind of kiss that makes Dean want more (preferably somewhere more comfortable, like his bed, or the back seat of the Impala).

“You’re really happy about this angel hunting thing, huh?” says Dean, though the sarcasm is blunted by how damn breathy his voice sounds.

Cas rolls his eyes. “If that’s what you want to believe.”

Dean shuts him up with another kiss, this one deeper and longer. He slips his tongue in and Cas makes a noise in the back of his throat, and he holds him in the kiss until they both have to come up for air. Cas pulls him back down onto his lips, tentatively trying to mimic Dean with his lips and tongue and _oh god_ , it’s almost like being _drunk_ it’s so good-

Sam is behind Cas, staring.

Dean wonders how the fuck he’s going to play this off when Cas is standing right there looking like he’s seen the face of God, with his lips all swollen and shit. Just because _he’s_ privately come to terms with this whole bisexual thing doesn’t mean that he’s okay with _other_ people knowing about it. Especially not his brother. He’s trying to come up with something, _anything,_ to serve as an explanation, when Sam says, “It’s a pity Gabriel isn’t here.”

“Why?” asks Dean.

“Because he owes me _so bad_!”

“You know what? Bite me, Sammy.”

“Why should I, when Cas is right there to do it for me?” Sam retorts. “Anyway, we’re trying to set up a schedule. Classes and stuff. We’re in the library.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Come out when you’re ready.”

He walks out before Dean can kick him or punch him or anything.

Dean looks at Cas. “You ready for this?”

“Of course,” he replies. “I told you before, I want to be a hunter. I was delayed, that’s all.”

Dean thinks about those kisses, and wonders how long Cas has wanted to give them. He considers asking. Instead, he says, “So. Hunter school.”

“I’m told it’s the family business,” Cas says drily.

“Yeah, it kinda is,” says Dean.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second pneumonia fic I've done, and again, I've played really fast and loose with both the symptoms and how a hospital works.
> 
> The title is from Anna Nalick's "Just Breathe."
> 
> The boys' hospital aliases are all taken from the band Genesis. The fact that Phil Collins shares a last name with Misha is just funny.
> 
> The angels' names are all biblical, and all of them are in-jokes or (in some cases, _very obscure_ ) references to other works. At least one is obvious if you know my musical tastes.
> 
> I'm debating whether or not to make this a series, or to give it a sequel or an epilogue. I'm also debating seriously editing it. Either way, this is my fiftieth fic here! Dance party!


End file.
